Sometimes
by Kyoko Kasshu Minamino
Summary: Some things only happen occasionally. And sometimes, we're just fooling ourselves. Slight SpikeFaye, SpikeJulia.
1. Faye

**Sometimes**

A/N: PLEASE don't shoot this one down too. This is my third attempt at writing Bebop. I wanna know if I have the talent or not. So please. Read and review. I'm recent to the fandom. This is probably going to stay a one-shot, but I might do one from Spike's POV. Enjoy.

Kyoko

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"Sometimes" is a funny word.

It means on occasion, every once in a while, rarely, just a few times.

A small, wry smile twists at the end of her lips. Sometimes.

Sometimes she hates this place. She hates this broken down, rusted Bebop. She hates the bad food, whenever there **is** any, and lack of hot water. She hates the long corridors of closed doors and the sounds that echo down them.

Sometimes she sits on the couch in the cold and smokes slowly and smoothly, propping her long legs up on the table and staring up at the ceiling fan, and wonders why she is here. There is nothing for her to do, no purpose for her to complete. She can't even daydream because she has no memories to travel back to. She only sits and smokes and waits for Ed and Ein to come bother her or Jet to come nag her or Spike to come pick a fight with her.

Sometimes it's hot because the AC is busted and she makes up an excuse to go out. She hopes that she'll travel to some town, some city, and meet someone who will take her away from this life of killing and waiting and killing and waiting and loneliness and anger and pain and scars.

Sometimes she looks at him and wishes that she were that faraway look in his chocolate eyes, the memory that makes his rugged, handsome face go blank with bliss. She wishes she could crawl across the couch like a cat and run her fingers through his hair, see if it's as soft as it looks, taste the alcohol on his lips, breathe in the scent of his neck and laugh at how he always smells like smoke. She wishes he would look at her and see how beautiful she is instead of imagining that she were someone else, that angel from the underworld, that devil from paradise. She wishes he would touch her, even an accidental brush, just to remind her she's still alive and not a ghost, not empty and lost and cold.

Sometimes she doesn't care what they think about her, the men who stare, the women who scowl, because she is not of their world. She's untouchable, unattainable, out of reach. A cold hearted temptress who always looking but never finding, always finding but never having.

Sometimes she lies awake because she cannot sleep. There is no place for her mind to travel, no faces to see that she can or wants to remember, no home that smells of cinnamon and apple pies, no handsome face with strong arms to hold her close, no kind faces welcoming her back from a long trip. She lies tangled in the white sheets and can only think of recent events; of faceless bounties, red skies, cigarette smoke, and the long, smooth line of Spike's neck. The tears taste bitter and make her pillow wet.

Sometimes.

But only sometimes.

END

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I really mean it, though. Do I suck? Is this weird? Or sappy? Feedback is very helpful.

Thanks for reading,

Kyoko


	2. Spike

Sometimes

A/N: Based on a review I recently recieved, I decided to continue this. But again, I need support. I have no clue if I have the gift of writing _Cowboy Bebop_. Let me know what you think. Your opinion matters to me. A lot. I think I'll go ahead and do Jet, Ed, Ein, and Julia in later chapters. I'm too scared of Vicious to do his voice. Anyway, **please** let me know what you think.

Kyoko

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In red darkness, cigarette smoke looks like blood. Blood flowing upward in a river, twisting in the air like a snake, and finally dispelling as it reaches the ceiling. Why was he sitting here in the dark?

Spike had never been an eloquent person, or a thoughtful one at that, but occasionally he would sit and think about words. Like "sometimes". It meant so much more when you were alone.

A slow, humorless smile stretches across his lips.

Sometimes he wonders what would happen if he really left the Bebop, left and never came back. What would he find? What would he become? A ghost, haunting empty hallways of space and time for all eternity? A monster, tearing through bounty after bounty, spilling blood and laughing as the metallic warmth ran in rivulets around his shoes? He always believed that was what he would turn into one day. A predator that lived for the thrill of the hunt. A lone wolf. A demon. Alone.

Sometimes he thinks that they are just distractions: the woman, the kid, the dog, the cook, from what he always comes back to in the end. Him, sitting in his room in the empty red darkness and staring out at the surface of Mars and thinking of her. Julia. His angel from the underworld. His devil from paradise.

Sometimes he thinks it would be better for him to die, to let one of those bullets hit a vital spot and take him away from this life, this dream, of violence, of bullets, of blood, of bad food, of useless arguments, of cold, dead faces, of ivory skin to far away to touch, of smoke, of emptiness, of pain, of scars. Maybe if he dies, he will truly live. He already died once. Would twice be the difference between reality and fantasy?

Sometimes he looks at her and sees an annoying, shallow vixen that uses whoever she wants to get whatever she wants. The sultry smile, the way she flicks the ashes off the end of the cigarette, the constantly mocking look in her jade green eyes. Her presence irritates him beyond all belief. And yet sometimes, at night, he thinks about reaching a hand through that thick curtain of violet hair and pulling her close, pressing his mouth to hers, tracing a hand down the pale line of her spine, casting the silly red jacket aside and touching her everywhere. He wants to know if her skin is really that soft, if her lipstick is really that sweet, if her voice will sound just as husky as she moans his name.

Sometimes he travels back to a time that was simpler, a time he only sees in black and white and in flashes. Rain. Laughter. A blood-red rose falling into a puddle. Vicious passing him a beer at the bar. The way Julia looks in candlelight. The smoking gun in his hand. The blood flooding around his shoes. The stained glass of the cathedral. The moonlight reflecting off the golden strands of her hair. Her breath in his ear. His lips on her neck. The silken sheets rustling underneath them. Heaven. Her eyes. Darkness.

The smoke curls out of his mouth and nose, kissing his face, his forehead, and he drowns in it.

Sometimes.

But only sometimes.

END


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